"Ready?"
* * * * *
Yes, I was ready. He made a careless flick of his hand and an order
was barked behind me. A clatter and a swoosh, and a cylinder arced
gracefully, catching me almost by surprise. I felt that familiar
tightening behind my eyes, that familiar tensing and hunching of my
shoulders. The propellant was taking the rocket almost out of sight
when the fuse fired it. "Wham!"
Caught that one in midair. Try another. Another "whoosh," and another
"wham."
* * * * *
Then they tried it in pairs. Both of the flying darning-needles blew
together, in an eccentric sweep of flame. Four, maybe five or six
pairs I knocked down short of the target, some so close to us that I
imagined I could feel the concussion. They switched to salvos of a
dozen at a time and they blew almost in unison. They emptied the racks
that way, and I was grimly amused at the queer expression of the
officer in charge as the enlisted men refilled the maws of the gaping
racks. Smith, the old man, nudged me a little harder than necessary.
"All racks, salvo."